The Musings of a ColdWar Undercover Bride
by nefret24
Summary: [Spy Game] A former CIA agent looks back at when she knew Nathan Muir. Set after the events of the movie. Please rr.


The Musings of a Cold-War Undercover Bride

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, plots, etc. of Spy Game, which remains property of Universal Studios. This story is not intended for profit or infringement. 

Summary: A former CIA agent looks back at when she knew Nathan Muir- an angsty overview set after the events of the movie. 

Feedback: Greatly appreciated and only polite. ;) 

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I was married to Nathan Muir.

Well, not technically, not bell, book and candle. But I was his wife. His second wife. His second _undercover_ wife. 

Though, as professional as we were, two CIA operatives living under one roof, pantomiming the ins and outs of wedded bliss for a little over a year, it was a bit of a commitment, not unlike a marriage, that is to say. There was no sex (the question everyone was dying to know the answer to, always, from the beginning), and from what I hear from several of my married girl-friends, that is one of the most truthful aspects about the whole charade. 

I came to a certain number of conclusions that year in Berlin, about Nathan (never Agent Muir, never darling or dear or sweetheart, just Nathan), about the job, about the way the world works- not all happy or reassuring, but not without their own unique value. And I was grateful for the opportunity: operatives like Nathan were a dime a dozen (and still are). 

It was a year of my life, having slipped in and out quietly amongst several like it, filled with dangerous assignments and exotic locales that all blend together in my worn memory, and I rarely thought of Nathan ever again. 

Until today. 

Two young go-getters rapped at my door this morning to let me know he had gone missing. The silly fools, of course Nathan can disappear- he was agency-trained (back when that meant something) and he was damn good at his job. And those two pencil pushers in bad suits (who probably never looked down the barrel of a gun in their lives) thought I'd know where to, that I would have some special super-human insight into where he would have gone.

No one knows Nathan. No one. 

Just look at his file, for godsakes. Under birthdate there's five series of numbers and a sticky note that asks a clerk to verify the information. They didn't know back in '78 and they still don't. He likes it that way. 

And for whatever his reasons, he needs it that way. 

Back then, it wasn't questioned. You got the job done, it didn't matter what your deal was, where you came from, what your feelings were concerning the current geo-political climate. Today it is unseemly to be a nameless, faceless, ruthless killer, which is exactly what we were, when it came down to it. No, now they want family men. Team players. Sensitive, pitying creatures with no spines and little stamina- like the two agents this morning. I could outrun them on days when my rheumatism doesn't act up. 

I suppose that was one of his most charming attributes: the mystery. Sure it was annoying as all hell, to have questions remain unanswered and to never be able to decipher exactly what my so-called partner was thinking. But he'd grin, oozing charisma out every pore, shrug and move on, gliding to safer, less personal topics of conversation, and hours later I'd finally realize I'd been hoodwinked. 

The agents had asked what, if anything he had divulged about his Personal Life. Details like names, addresses, perhaps?

Hah. Nathan was more forthcoming about a hangnail. 

I have my secrets and I've got a hell of a poker face (and when that didn't work, back in the day I had the body with the legs all the way to the floor to distract anyone who thought otherwise). But it was only during that year with Nathan that I've ever felt the compulsion to spill all the beans. I suppose it's just part and parcel of having a crush, of reveling in an inappropriate and unrequited lust for a man I hardly knew. 

I played hard to get with my secrets, offering them up, tit for tat. He never took me up on my offers. I'd deliberately try to provoke him, anything to get a rise out of him- of lust or anger, I didn't care, just so long as it wasn't infinite patience, a one-liner about the job and that grin. 

He'd admire the lingerie and make suggestions about future purchases while enjoying the view. I threatened to cut my hair and he said nothing, concealed behind the morning paper like Citizen Kane, calling my bluff without hesitation. He would only kiss me back in public, a show for an expectant audience. Once darling disciple Tom Bishop found out what I was, the act didn't even last in front of him. 

And that was okay, I hold no grudge or hatred towards either of them. I don't even feel very sad about it- except maybe pity for Nathan. When you live that long without anyone, without a peer, without someone that understands and can be sympathetic and that you can trust implicity it's enough to make you feel inhuman. 

Nathan would point out that is what scotch and whores are for, if he were here.

Bishop was a lot like him, more than I think Nathan would have liked to admit. Same height, same weight, same inscrutable good looks: they were like a matched set of super-spies. Yet for all the similarities, Bishop was terrifyingly, reassuringly human. The world, the agency, the job hadn't gotten to him yet. I can still hear Nathan, grousing after another training day came to a close: "That boy wears his heart on his sleeve and it's going to get him killed."

I wonder what happened to the Boy Scout, if he is ten feet underground or like a ghost, is still haunting the old grounds of Near East Ops, a carbon copy of his mentor: untouchable, professional and inhuman, a machine that does the job that Langley orders it to do, dealing with guilt and normal emotions with liquor (scotch- only scotch, never less than ten years old) and glib comments. 

Like I told the agents this morning, it's good that Nathan has a little time off, time away from the reservation. He needs it more than anyone I've ever known.

They went away after a while, leaving behind cards, empty sentiments of "thank you for your cooperation, ma'am" and a long tire tread in my lawn. And I went about my day as per usual and didn't really think much of anything at all until the dinner dishes were washed and the sun had disappeared behind the horizon. I poured myself a glass of scotch and savored it, feeling the gold liquid slide down my throat, the taste reminding me of all the kisses he ever gave me. 

I mourn ever so slightly for my youth, for those days that were filled with something other than errands and gardening and the odd volunteer job. But then I remember why I got out, consoling myself that I made it through the program with my soul intact; still human, still here. 

I don't know if Nathan can say the same thing. 

One thing that I do know about Nathan is this: he plays by his own rules and he's a survivor. They'll never catch up with him if he has really disappeared for good- never- it's pointless to think otherwise. Why he's waited so long to grab a moment for himself, I don't know but I hope it mends him in the places that need mending.

If he came to my door right now, what should I say? Do? 

Probably nothing. I doubt he'd volunteer anything either. He'd just come in and pour himself a drink and sit in my armchair, giving me that sidelong glance, that grin (a little cocky, a little rueful, completely enigmatic) and asking benign questions about my flowerbeds. 

I looked out my living room window- the street is dark and quiet, peaceful. I didn't really expect it to be otherwise- and I don't wish it to be otherwise, really. I like the quiet and I'm too old for games anymore. My flowers intrigue me quite enough. 

I'm tired now and ready to go upstairs and meet my waiting (empty but warm) bed. 

I leave the light on downstairs, though, just in case.

FIN.

Please R/R.


End file.
